


The Writing's on the Wall

by nflove



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nflove/pseuds/nflove
Summary: Kyle and DeMar’s first reunion after the trade a.k.a. Kyle discovers DeMar’s tattoos. Inspired by this post: https://baking-soda.tumblr.com/post/186727440452/demar-got-youre-a-nobody-why-would-they-care
Relationships: DeMar DeRozan/Kyle Lowry
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	The Writing's on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> DeMar has three tattoos “you’re a nobody” “why would they care about you?” and “you don’t matter at all” which he got after the trade. It tears me up so bad because why would you write that on yourself?? DEEBO!! you KNOW Kyle is gonna see them at some point. I feel like DeMar kinda wants Kyle to see them in a masochistic way, but then when it actually happens he's like oh shit I can't deal with this, Kyle can't know me like this or he'll leave.

Kyle’s had it marked in his calendar for months now. The Raptors are facing the Spurs in San Antonio for the first time since the trade. It’s a midseason game, nobody is thinking about playoff implications yet, but the spotlight is on with the media painting it as a “revenge game” for DeMar and an opportunity for Kawhi to demonstrate his value. “Fuck the stories,” DeMar had said to Kyle a few weeks earlier over FaceTime, “I’m just ready for the chance to dunk on your ass.” Kyle had scoffed exaggeratedly, eliciting a smug smile from DeMar.

Now, as Kyle waits in line to go through customs, he shoots DeMar a text, “landed”. There’s nothing to it, Kyle will take the Raptors bus to the arena, DeMar is probably already heading over to the stadium from the practice facility. It’s more a way for Kyle to manage his giddiness, these simple updates, tracking his progress as the Raptors near AT&T Center.

When the arena finally comes into view, Kyle’s pulse quickens. He taps his feet in different beats on the floor of the bus, trying to stop himself from smiling like an idiot. He snaps a quick picture of the stadium parking lot and sends it to DeMar with some happy face emojis. When the Raptors disembark from the bus and head into the visiting locker room, Kyle throws his bags into his locker and changes into his warmup in less than thirty seconds. Coach gives him a nod, signaling that he can go take the floor even though most of the guys aren’t dressed yet. Kyle takes off down the tunnel and runs onto the court. DeMar is sitting in a folding chair, tying his shoes on the sideline and Kyle nearly knocks him over with the force of his hug. DeMar laughs, “Yo, chill,” he says standing up so he can give Kyle a proper hug. DeMar’s enthusiasm is more subdued, but still genuine. His chest heats up a little, feeling Kyle against him for the first time in four months, seeing Kyle’s easy walk, his goofy smile. Sometimes it amazes him how much he delights Kyle.

As more Raptors filter onto the court, Kyle steps away, giving DeMar time to catch up with his former teammates. DeMar daps up Fred and Serge, talks some trash with OG, then exchanges a few words with Kawhi – they’ve never really been friends, but they have a mutual understanding, both finding themselves at the center of this mess. When the game starts, the Spurs take an early lead. DeMar’s shots are dropping and he’s playing lights out on defense, making blocks left and right. The Spurs end up winning 125-107.

After the game, Kyle and DeMar grab dinner at a cozy Mexican place. The only other people there at this hour are a group of college kids three booths down and a middle-aged man who looks like he just got off work.

“We whooped y’all.” DeMar says, proudly as they sit down.

“Shut up.” Kyle laughs. He isn’t even mad. DeMar dropped 21 and had a triple-double. He couldn’t pretend that wasn’t beautiful to watch. DeMar in flight, DeMar extending to swat down a deep three, DeMar leaping into a windmill dunk, the quiet confidence in DeMar’s face after performances like this. He wouldn’t smile outright, but you could feel it under there, resting in the crinkles of his eyes, hiding in the subtle quirks of his mouth, he had played well and he knew it. _This_ is what Kyle missed.

DeMar orders steak tacos and Kyle gets a cheese quesadilla.

“Lame.” DeMar teases.

“Then don’t be tryna steal some.” Kyle says kicking him under the table.

A laugh bubbles up from inside DeMar, louder than he expected. “Nah…” he says shaking his head. “We’ll see.” He takes a chip to hide his grin.

“You tell them you’d stay over?” DeMar asks.

“Yeah, I put in a request to fly back a day late. They prob’ly know I’m stayin’ with you.”

“Oh that’s your plan?” DeMar says, mock surprised. “Imma have to check if I have room for you.” Kyle punches him, both dissolving into laughter.

After the meal, they drive home in peaceful silence. Headlights become painted streaks as they fly by in the opposite lane. Above the endlessly flat landscape, the moon looks faded in the sky, like it’s hiding beneath a thin layer of dust. DeMar’s hands are relaxed on the wheel, long fingers loosely grasping the leather. His eyes are focused, but soft, reflecting the glow of the yellow road lines. Kyle reaches out and places a gentle hand on the back of DeMar’s neck, thumbing softly over the top of his spine. The touch is simple, but it means many things. _You’re beautiful_ and _I’m proud of you for tonight_ and _thank you for driving_. Instead, Kyle just says a soft “missed you.”

DeMar shivers a little. He likes when Kyle is tired, it makes him sweeter, more earnest. There’s a mellow Kyle that lives in the late hours of a postgame haze, only on rare occasions seeping into the other parts of the day. DeMar hasn’t had warmth like this in months. You don’t get this Kyle over FaceTime and DeMar feels it now deep in his stomach like a memory flooding back over his senses.

Later, they lie in DeMar’s bed kissing lazily. Kyle is on top of DeMar, pressing kisses across his neck, his chest, his shoulders. He lifts his head for a moment to admire DeMar under the dim glow of the light filtering in from the hallway.

Kyle’s eyes settle on “You don’t matter at all” scrawled across DeMar’s arm.

He freezes, grabbing DeMar’s bicep “What is this?”

DeMar pushes his hand off and tries to recapture Kyle’s lips, but Kyle pulls away.

“ _What_. Why do you have this?”

“Man, we don’t have to talk about it.” DeMar grumbles.

“How you expect me to ignore that?” Kyle raises his voice.

“I don’t wanna think about it right now.”

“How can you say that, it’s _on_ you.”

“Forget it.”

Kyle pauses and for a moment DeMar thinks he might let it go.

Then, “DeMar, I’m serious, you gotta tell me.”

DeMar swallows hard. “Kyle, _stop_.”

“Fine, just … why are you hiding things from me?” Kyle says more softly, almost hurt.

DeMar shifts uncomfortably. Kyle rolls off of him.

“Whatever’s goin’ on with you, I wanna know.”

“You think that…” DeMar sighs, looking up at the ceiling, “till you actually know.”

Kyle is silent for a few minutes. DeMar can hear him breathing – jagged, liquid breaths. He desperately wants Kyle back on his chest, but he can barely stand having him in the same room.

“What it says,” Kyle starts cautiously eying the tattoo, “do you believe that?”

DeMar’s heart is racing. “I just need…” he hates how callous he feels saying it, but it’s the truth. “I just need some space.”

“I’m not tryna be all up in your shit, I’m just tryna understand.”

“I know. But I can’t make you understand.”

Kyle hold his hands up and backs away, “Damn, okay. I’ll be downstairs.”

That night, Kyle cries for the first time since the trade. It’s the same feeling as the night four months back – an utter lack of control. A single piece of information, simple as lines on skin, and suddenly the cards crumble, the world he thought he lived in lies in rubble around him. There is nothing that terrifies Kyle more than the prospect of not understanding DeMar DeRozan.

***

DeMar wanders out of the bedroom, shirtless. He is wearing oversized basketball shorts with the throwback Raptors logo on the side.

Kyle is curled up on the couch, a shitty blanket strewn over him as he scrolls through his phone. When he sees DeMar enter, he sits up a little, swinging his feet to the ground.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” DeMar stops a few paces from the couch, unsure if he is allowed to cross the carpet to join Kyle. His face looks heavy, creased like he stayed up late thinking. He’s picking at his fingers agitatedly, but stops abruptly when he sees Kyle looking, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“How’d you sleep?” Kyle asks, looking up at DeMar’s face.

“I didn’t.” His response is empty, but not cold.

“’M sorry.” Kyle says softly.

DeMar shrugs. Kyle can tell he’s hurting, bad. 

Kyle wants to see DeMar smile, wants to make a joke, but doesn’t have one in him. He wants DeMar to laugh, carefree and full, feels pathetic that he can’t even do something as simple as make his best friend laugh.

“You sleep?” DeMar asks hoarsely.

“Not really.” Kyle waves it off.

“Hmm.” DeMar stands there, swaying slightly. He looks exposed. His 6’6” frame has never looked so gentle. Kyle knows what he can do on the court, but here, softly illuminated by morning sun, you’d never guess.

The air between them is quiet, thick with anticipation and melancholy. After years of living entwined, side by side, could four months apart have made them strangers?

“Deebo, I –” Kyle starts, cutting himself off, afraid the words might lose coherence somewhere between his heart and his mouth. He breathes. “I don’t know what you need.” The admission is laced with guilt, inadequacy.

“I know you don’t.”

“But I want to. Whatever you need.” Kyle looks at him waiting for an instruction, a game plan for how to repair what’s broken.

DeMar exhales heavily, looking himself over, then locking eyes with Kyle. “This is me.” He doesn’t say it proudly or shamefully. He says it like it’s something new, like this is the first time Kyle’s really seen him, the hard planes of his face, the wide set hazel eyes, the oversized mesh shorts, the faded tattoos across his chest, his arms, his hands.

“You gotta get that,” DeMar says, “If we gon’ do any of this.”

Kyle nods. The ache in his core is too strong, he thinks he might cry. “Can I hug you?” He asks.

DeMar opens his arms for Kyle. “C’mere” And Kyle slips in, wrapping his arms around DeMar’s waist, pressing his face into DeMar’s chest. DeMar rests his chin on the puff of Kyle’s hair and holds on.

“Kyle.” DeMar says after a moment, the sound vibrating through his chest. Kyle loves the shape of his name in DeMar’s mouth, a single drawn out syllable – it feels definitive, grounding, secure, like an answer. “I need you to be patient.”

“I’m sorry for being shitty last night.” Kyle whispers.

DeMar hums in acknowledgement.

“I love you Deebo. Like this, or however.”

DeMar knows how guarded Kyle used to be, sometimes still is, how much it takes for him to say that. DeMar leans down, kisses him softly, appreciative.

***

Later that day, Kyle is sitting on the couch with DeMar’s legs across his lap. They have SportsCenter playing on the TV, but Kyle’s only half listening. DeMar’s eyes are closed. Kyle isn’t sure if he's sleeping or just thinking. Outside, a tired gust of wind swirls through the trees.

“I got three of ‘em.” DeMar says, suddenly.

“Hm?”

“The tattoos.”

_Oh._

“The other two are more covered.” DeMar gives his arm to Kyle. “See?” Kyle’s unsure how to react. He gives DeMar a questioning look, afraid to touch where he’s not invited. DeMar nods and Kyle’s fingers brush across the letters of “you’re a nobody.”

He runs them along the expanse of DeMar’s arm, over all three chilling sentences. Kyle’s played by his side for years, jerked him off, been fucked by him, curled up on his chest afterward, but somehow this touch feels more intimate than any of that.

“Got’em a few weeks after the trade.” DeMar says.

“Shit, Deebo.”

“Yeah, I was feelin’…I don’t know… off. When I first moved here, it was just too many people, but nobody real, you know? Like I was just walkin’ in somebody else’s life.”

Kyle nods.

“I’d just practice, get food, go home, and then it’d be me in a empty house. Gives you time to think…and that’s not good for me. And you’d FaceTime me…which was good, but then after, it’d be worse.”

DeMar is speaking in sporadic bursts, like each sentence might be the last, scanning for Kyle’s judgment at every pause. But Kyle remains silent, slips his hand into DeMar’s as he listens.

“I’d go into the different rooms of the house, like I was fuckin’ expectin’ someone to be there. Dumb shit. And the only thing I could think of to do is go to sleep. Most days, that’s all I did…. But even when we had team shit, like dinners or whatever, it was just draining. Doin’ stuff I’m supposed to like, but it wasn’t making me feel…anything.”

DeMar rubs a hand over his face. “This stuff still gets to me. I’ll miss an easy jumper in practice and then I can’t get it outta my head. And I’ll think about, y’know, what if I never came back. Nothing would even change. Or some asshole will say some shit that pisses me off, sayin’ I’m washed - and I fucking believe it. Like nothin’ I do could ever prove it wrong. Drop 40, not good enough. It kills me, this shit. Still does.”

Kyle waits for DeMar to continue, but DeMar turns slightly, curls into Kyle’s side, signaling that he’s done for now. This is going to take time; Kyle can wait. He wraps an arm around DeMar. “Thank you for telling me.”

DeMar tucks his head into Kyle’s neck, a comfort he rarely allows himself. His eyelashes brush lightly against Kyle’s skin, unlocking a visceral tenderness in Kyle. He presses his lips against the top of DeMar’s head, closing his eyes tightly. He could cry, but he doesn’t want to. Instead, he focuses on the feeling of DeMar’s breath on his neck, soft and rhythmic, right where he belongs.


End file.
